I’ve crossed many bridges in my lifetime. Some I had to construct on my own, many were the only path across the stormy sea. I feel recently that I’ve been walking across another bridge. I’m further along than not and yet I still cannot see what is on the other side, nor do I know why I am on the bridge. Below is an abyss and I can hear churning water. I don’t think it’s a washing machine, although perhaps it is. When I look back, it’s too far to see clearly but I can think and think. I know what is there. The past. The earthquakes of my life. The peaks and valleys and triumphs and successes. Joy, sadness, hope. All of that and more. The known, the coming to know. When I look ahead I see a speck of light. I don’t know what is there. Unknown. I wonder. What will be?
About bridges I’ve learned this: until I cross over them, I don’t know if I’ve constructed my own, or I’ve passed over a stormy sea. For this reason alone, and many more which I cannot yet name, I am reluctant to stand in the middle and wait. I’ll push on.About photography and writing I’ve learned this: until I’ve taken the picture, until I’ve written the piece, I don’t know much about what I’ve done, until I’m finished. And then I celebrate the connection with the conscious and unconscious mind with a grateful alleluia. I learn to trust what I don’t know and value what I do.